Does Fiction Mean Fake Novels & Stories

“I knew that you were a greedy person but I didn’t know that you could take anyone’s life for your own concern! I will not let you live until I see you in the prison” “I didn’t kill him! it was just an accident” Keith started hesitating. “Stop lying you greedy man! You’re a thief and a murderer! All you love is money!” Henry accused. Keith slammed the door and went back in. “You didn’t go to work today? Asked his little daughter Victoria. “No.” “Why and who was on the door?” Martina came and sat beside Keith.

"You want me to destroy myself. To admit to crimes that will put me in prison for life. Why would I do that?" "Because if you don't," I said while walking over to stand directly in front of him, "I won't just release fake evidence. I'll create so much fake evidence that no one will ever be able to tell what's real and what isn't. I'll make you look guilty of things you didn't even do. I'll fabricate emails showing you planning terrorist attacks. I'll create bank records showing you funding child trafficking rings. By the time I'm done your name will be associated with every horrible thing I can imagine. And you'll be dead so you won't be able to defend yourself."

"You know nothing about me, Cairen. But I don't read romance. It's cliche.” I have never read a fiction book in my life. It's boring and gives me a headache. “Romance is not cliche. It shows true love and how the characters struggle in the name of love,” I remarked, biting my lips not to laugh. Zach wrinkled his nose like I was saying a nasty thing. "Why is it called fiction? It's not a real thing that happened. I would rather read about things that happened in real life than bullshit imagination," he grumpily said.

I gather facts more than a reporter, search more than a detective. I take out my phone and open the browser. The internet is full of information. I am sure I can find one about this mysterious Mr. Fiction; I tell myself as I type on the g****e search bar. I feel the hesitation linger with doubt starts clouding my mind. What if I am not ready to find out about him? What if it is not something I am prepared for?

“No that’s not what I’m saying at all, I’m asking what you know about fiction?” “You mean if I want to free a character from a story, I have to follow the rules of fiction.” “And what rules usually apply to fictional rescues from Hell?” “Wait, you said she was trapped in a story, not Hell.” “Both Heaven and Hell are stories that we tell ourselves. They’re ways of coping with our mortality and what comes after.” “I suppose you’re right, that’s why we tell tales about descents into the underworld isn’t it?” “Yes it is.”

"Lily is going to be good too. I need to be better than good." "What does better than good look like?" Sofia asked. "Real," Ava said. "It looks real." Sofia nodded slowly. "Then be real." "I'm trying to figure out how to be real in front of four hundred people without it feeling like a performance of being real." "That's the whole thing, isn't it," Sofia said. "The moment you perform authenticity it stops being authentic." "Extremely unhelpful," Ava said. "Thank you." "I'm just identifying the problem. You'll solve it. You always solve things."

“And we need answers that align.” I paused. “…Align?” “Yes.” I exhaled slowly, the realization settling in. “You mean we need a story.” “Correct.” I let out a humorless laugh. “So we’re officially building a fake relationship now.” "It's more like building a narrative.” Quin corrected. “Call it whatever you want, it’s still a lie.” “It’s a controlled version of events.” I rolled my eyes. “You really have a way of making everything sound less insane than it actually is.”

It's all a fantasy. Fable has been my escape. An unhealthy one. A safe pretend world where I could bury myself. Just like how Zee cried after she finished the final Harry Potter book, or how Jamie bases so much of her worth on the fictional version of herself that lives across a thousand Instagram pics, in the comments and likes of a thousand strangers. Just carefully constructed lies to comfort and lull. Dreams.

Leaving personal matters within, I shot back, "You are living your life your way, aren't you? Then why can't I? Stop interfering in my personal life." Damien uttered glaring at me, "Don’t you dare to question my life, Ms. McBride. By any chance, if you are telling me to be loyal to you because you are my fiancee then put a thing in your mind that YOU are my fake fiancee. Fake. And I don’t have the useless wish to interfere in your so-called personal life. But unlike you, I have a reputation that will get hampered if you continue falling into a stranger's arms like last night. I won't like the news about my fiancee stepping out from a stranger's place in the early morning or roaming with some

“Of course not. It’s just a house . . . my house, as you said.” “I can’t believe it. You’re Mr. Horror, and you don’t believe in ghosts? How is that even possible?” “Okay, Bias, I’m going to blow your mind with one hell of a revelation about writers and their stories. I’m pretty sure Lewis Carroll never fell down a rabbit hole into a magical Wonderland; it doesn’t seem likely that Anne Rice believes in vampires; and I highly doubt J.K. Rowling has met any real wizards. That’s what makes it fiction and not nonfiction.”